Into Forbidden Lands
The Keeper

Illiom was in no condition to travel, but she knew that to linger in this exposed place would be dangerous. Argolan commiserated with her, but although her tone was apologetic, her manner brooked no compromise.

“We cannot wait for you to recover, Illiom,” she said. “I am sorry, but we only survived yesterday’s attack thanks to the Woedim. If we tarry even a single day, we may give the enemy time to reorganise and mount a second and possibly more devastating attack.”

Tarmel turned angrily towards the Shieldarm, but Illiom grabbed his wrist.

“Wait, Tarmel,” she said, and turned to Argolan. “I do not want to be a burden. I will be fine, so do what needs to be done.”

Appalled, Tarmel shook his head.

“But you can hardly walk…”

His protectiveness touched her, nevertheless she insisted.

“I have already died once, remember?” she said. “I am not as delicate as you think.”

Within half an hour they were on their way.

Leaning on Tarmel, Illiom tried not to let her discomfort show.

They were both startled when a Woedim appeared alongside and bent down to gently take Illiom into its arms.

She looked down at Tarmel and the look of gratitude upon his face reflected her own.

The World of Mirrors, she thought, before the gentle sway of the creature’s gait lulled her to sleep.

They camped when daylight failed. Tarmel wanted to help, but with only one able arm it was quite difficult. Argolan refused his offer and instructed him to rest and mend. Illiom was gratified that she had him all to herself. They shared a bowl of herb broth prepared by Azulya and Pell.

Illiom was aware that Tarmel was in greater pain than he was revealing, so after they had eaten she insisted on seeing to his shoulder.

“There is no need. Azulya has already.”

“Show me,” she pressed, gently but firmly.

He relented and allowed her to remove his shirt and the improvised bindings that the Kroeni had wound across his chest.

Illiom drew a sharp breath when she saw the row of small but deep lacerations that ran all the way from his neck to the side of his ribcage. At her request, he turned reluctantly to reveal a corresponding row of punctures down his back.

The surrounding skin was an angry red.

“Has Azulya put anything on this?” she asked, trying to contain her distress.

“Of course! There is a poultice in my bag.”

“Then fetch it, please.”

Illiom spent the next hour gently rubbing the dark substance into each of his wounds.

As she did so, she prayed to the Goddess.

A soulful prayer for every single wound.

Afterwards he held her close as they lay together.

“You have not spoken a single word about what happened to you,” he reminded her.

Illiom cringed. She was grateful that he could not see her expression as she began to tell him what had happened.

He was completely still as he listened quietly to her words, yet she could sense his reactions in the holding of his breath and the tightening of his body.

When she finished she lay there, feeling his heartbeat, grateful for his arm still around her.

“I love you,” she said. “I want you to understand that regardless of what you may think, I am untouched.”

Illiom waited a few moments. When he did not respond she continued.

“Do not misunderstand me. I would not wish this on anyone, but I am not as affected as I once would have been.”

She paused to let that settle in him.

“Something has truly changed, Tarmel. The one I believed myself to be … it was a lie. It always was, but I was unable to see it until now.”

She sensed that she was wasting her breath; that try as he might, even Tarmel did not – could not – understand. Yet she remained untroubled by this, for she knew that one day he would.

“I am carrying your child,” she whispered, turning to see his expression.

Tarmel slowly lifted his gaze until their eyes met. In them she saw his response and the range of his reactions more clearly than he could ever have expressed in words.

Illiom pressed on.

“According to the Bloodrobe, I am now also carrying his child. He took great pleasure in informing me that his child would consume ours, but, Tarmel, I do not believe him.”

Tarmel’s look of horror hardened into one of absolute fury.

“Sudra helped me to see the lie. The Bloodrobe tried to instil in me a fear that I would give birth to a monster, to one such as he.”

Her Rider was consumed by a storm of hatred. Illiom reached over to touch his face and then pressed her lips tenderly against his.

“Tarmel,” she whispered. “Do not let your rage blind you! I do not believe him. He lied. He was trying to terrify me, and make me do something far worse. If I were to hate his spawn and fear for our own child, … he would have won.”

Tarmel began to protest, but Illiom placed her fingers lightly against his lips.

“Wait, Tarmel, hear me out. It was the monster Balgor who raped me, but the seed that he planted in me was not his, it came from Crelor. Queen Eranel’s brother is not a monster, but a victim of the one who stole his body. If a second child grows alongside ours, it is Crelor’s child! We have nothing whatsoever to fear from that lineage. Do you see?”

Tarmel looked distraught and confused, so she continued and there was certainty in her tone.

“I will not hate Crelor’s child, nor will I fear for ours. Both are mine, and this is what I ask of you now. Can you also find it in your heart to love them both?”

Illiom looked intently into Tarmel’s eyes and saw the turmoil there.

“You do not have to answer me now, my beloved,” she added, taking his hand in hers. “Take as much time as you need.”

Tarmel shook his head slowly.

He held her as tightly as he dared, which was far more delicately than necessary.

“I will love whatever emerges from your body, Illiom, because it will have come from you. I will treasure every aspect of your being till my dying breath.”

Illiom closed her eyes and rested in the healing balm of the love they shared.

During the night the healing lights returned and by morning Illiom felt wholly restored and was able to walk unaided.

The day after that – the tenth day of the Dragonmoon and only six days since they had left the Werewood – the party traversed a landscape that was at long last completely free of the reminders of war. The ground underfoot was bleached white, and was harsh and barren. It supported no life other than a scattering of stunted, wind-swept shrubs. The sky weighed upon them, leaden and dark, and bore a promise of snow.

They climbed up a long, steep slope and then, all at once, they found themselves poised on the edge of a cliff, looking down upon a vast expanse of water.

They had reached the Onceland Sea.

An icy wind blew into their faces as they stood before the last obstacle between them and their destination.

This was the sea that had drowned ancient Sterren Gar and destroyed Princess Elleya’s world.

The sea was turbulent. Buffeted by a frenzied wind, its waves foamed and thrashed restlessly. Nothing at all could be seen of its centre – where Illiom had hoped to see Igollianath. A familiar dark cloud hung there, hiding everything from sight. It looked exactly like the darkness that had crept out of Kroen to cover Varadon’s Keep.

To the north, the cliffs grew steadily higher until they merged seamlessly with the walls of a daunting stronghold. To the south, however, they gradually lost some of their height and the long, gracious arc of a beach stretched along the base of the cliffs.

Illiom saw forms flying around the fringes of the cloud and knew without doubt that they were not birds.

“Grifor, can you tell us anything?” Argolan asked.

The Rider peered into the distance. Sᴇaʀᴄh thᴇ FɪndNovᴇl.nᴇt website on Gøøglᴇ to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.

“There are several two-headed flying creatures, both around the cloud and near that fortification north of here. Aside from that I cannot see anything else worth mentioning.”

“Chosen?” the Shieldarm prompted.

“We must find a way to get across this sea,” Azulya answered.

“We will need a boat,” Sereth said.

“We must remain out of sight,” Grifor added, pointing towards the cloud. “A few of those creatures are flying in our direction.”

Illiom could not see as well as the Rider, but the mere thought of those creatures coming towards them chilled her more than the icy wind.

“Do you think they have spotted us?” Argolan asked.

“It is possible,” Scald interjected. “We should make our way down to the beach. We are more likely to find a place to hide there than up here.”

Argolan nodded.

“The cliffs are lower that way,” she said, indicating south. “We will decide what to do once we are there.”

They followed the edge of the cliffs and gradually the beach became more accessible.

They passed some ruins, but these were so old that they were little more than dark protrusions in the snow. They intersected what appeared to be the smooth surface of an ancient road that led directly west and ended abruptly at the cliff’s edge. A few stones still jutted out into the void, like stubby fingers pointing towards where they should be heading.

A while later they crossed a streambed that had carved its way down the cliff face in its journey to the sea. Argolan sent Zoran to investigate and he returned quickly with heartening news: the stream had created a slippery but walkable path that led all the way down.

They were about to follow it when Z’essh touched Illiom’s arm. She turned to look at him as he pointed back in the direction they had come.

Hundreds of Woedim had stopped some distance away. It seemed that they had no intention of venturing any further.

The others turned as well and by tacit agreement the Chosen walked back towards the forest-folk.

“Hail Wood-brothers!” Sereth intoned. “We honour you and thank you for your protection. Without you we would never have made it this far. We will not forget you when this darkness is past.”

For a few moments the only sounds were those of the wind and of the surf washing against the shore. Then in unison the Woedim answered in an inflectionless tone.

“Hail Chosen, protectors of Earth and Wood. May your harvest be plentiful, may you find rest and stillness after the storm. May your roots grow deep and may your seed flourish.”

With these parting words the Woedim turned and walked away from the edge of the Onceland Sea, heading east, returning to the refuge of the Werewood.

They stood unmoving until the last of the forest-folk was gone. Then, without a word, they turned and resumed their descent.

They climbed down past a tumble of rocks and debris left behind by the high tide.

Waves slammed against the length of a pebble beach that stretched north and south. The wind-borne sea spray shrouded all detail.

They turned south and had travelled about half a league when they found a hollow in the cliff that offered some shelter.

They dared not light any fires, but ate some cold food and retired early.

Illiom woke to find the cliff face aglow with red light and the Onceland Sea brooding like an ocean filled with blood.

Irrsche had risen and her light waxed and waned behind the rushing of the clouds.

The Dark Goddess’ fire was so disturbing and the howl of wind so insistent that Illiom was unable to find refuge in sleep again. She lay still, cradling her Key and listening to the incessant noise of the breakers.

As she waited for the deliverance of dawn she had an insight.

There was indeed a way of finding an answer to their current riddle. She had borne it with her since Evárudas, and Illiom could scarcely believe that she had forgotten about it until this moment.

In the lurid glow of the Illstar’s light she rummaged through her bag until she found it, a small leaf-parcel containing the Muliahan, the seeing potion that the Shimina elder had given her before they had parted ways.

She opened it, peeling back the layers of leaves until she reached the still moist moss contained within. She hesitated for a few moments, then quickly washed it down with some water before she could change her mind.

Illiom waited.

The wind howled. The sea thrashed. The Illstar hid behind the clouds.

Nothing happened.

Swallowing her disappointment, she lay back down, and with that simple movement she felt the change erupt within her.

Illiom sat up again and saw it. There it was, plainly visible: the pinnacle of Mount Igol protruding from the churning waters of the Onceland Sea.

The island shimmered with a light of its own that seethed with contradictions. It was at once fell and whole, its darkness tangible, yet also encircled by a pure radiance. Right and wrong, dark and light, purity and corruption seemed to cohabit there, sharing equally the same domain, each appearing impervious to the other.

The World of Mirrors.

Illiom turned away, for her attention was now summoned by a new presence. A shape that she could barely make out coalesced before her.

Illiom had no idea what the silent presence wanted, but a moment later she understood.

She had summoned the Shimina ancestor spirit from the nether realms and it was wanting to know why.

“We need to reach Igollianath,” she said, pointing at the pinnacle in the middle of the sea. “Will you show me the way to get there?”

She spoke without words, but to her own ears she sounded like a storm unleashing its fury over the ocean.

The presence responded instantly, also without words.

It pointed and when Illiom turned she saw something coming towards them along the narrow beach.

It was a creature of fog and broiling shadows, and it stopped before Illiom. Despite its proximity, its shape remained ambiguous.

Illiom knew what it required of her.

She climbed onto its back and rode it like she had ridden Black Lightning; north they rode, beneath the forbidding cliffs illuminated by Irrsche’s baleful eye, gradually drawing closer to the citadel.

However, just before they reached it, she was borne through a fissure in the face of the cliff and into a sheltered cavern.

There, upon a bank of pristine sand, rested a boat, its golden timbers a soft luminosity in the velvet darkness.

Illiom reached out to stroke the vessel, but either the wood or her fingers had no substance, for her hand passed through it as though it was an illusion.

She had found their passage.

All she had to do now was wait for the potion to release her so she could inform the others.

But release her it did not.

She was suddenly torn away from the boat and cast across the sea, over swelling waves that reached for her like claws. Against the howling wind, propelled ever forward, she flew until she reached an island of barren stone. The power that drove her did not pause there, but pushed her straight past it.

The moment she spied the second island, Illiom knew that this was the one, this was Igol.

It was massive, a monolith of stone that jutted defiantly out from the pounding waves, its peak still hidden far above in the folds of the black cloud. Its stark sides of barren rock, black with rain, were buffeted by howling winds.

She circled it three times, and with each pass she drew closer to its precipitous flanks. On the last pass she saw a dark gap, a triangular opening in the mountain’s side. She flew into that opening and then …

Just an empty, peaceful void.

The next day, as soon as the tide allowed, they followed the course of Illiom’s vision.

A storm raged around them. Icy winds tore at their clothing and stung their hands and faces.

As violent as it was, they were grateful that they did not need to wait for the cover of darkness to travel safely, for the storm made them invisible to those that would destroy them.

Even so, the task proved much more onerous than Illiom could have anticipated. The tide was rising and the Onceland Sea was like a creature writhing in pain. It pounded heavily against the boulders that littered the base of the cliffs, releasing violent explosions of foaming spray.

Looking out to sea, Illiom saw the waves rise as if fleeing from the noxious cloud hovering around Igollianath, appearing like a herd of wild horses in full flight, white manes tossed by the gale.

The tract of dry beach continued to narrow before the advancing tide and it became imperative that they find shelter quickly. They were fortunate to discover a gap in the cliffs that led to a steep gully, and they clambered up the slope until they were certain that the rising waters could not reach them.

They risked a small fire in a recessed hollow, shared a little food and waited. As soon as the tide began to ebb, they hastened northward once more.

They travelled for two full days, hugging the base of the cliffs, walking whenever the tide allowed passage.

Iod dawned on the fifteenth day of Dragonmoon and they still had not reached their destination. The tide was coming in again and, as they had not found suitable shelter, they ended up spending a miserable night in the lee of a massive boulder that screened them from the direct onslaught of wind and sea, but not from the frigid cold.

Illiom tried to rest, but sleep eluded her. She lay awake, huddled against Tarmel, listening to the sea’s thunderous surge for an eternity until she drifted at last into an uneasy slumber.

She awoke with such sudden and urgent alarm that she knew immediately something was amiss.

The world was dark and deathly quiet, as though even the sea had stopped breathing. Tarmel stirred awake and together they rounded the boulder to find the Onceland Sea as still as a sheet of obsidian. The storm had blown itself out and not even a ripple disturbed the water’s surface. Even the stars could be seen now, mirrored in the quiet waters.

They woke the others and the party silently trudged forward once more.

Sudra glowed in full brightness over the western horizon. Irrsche hung like a wound in the darkness of the southern sky, dripping her venom onto the landscape.

The cloud over the Onceland Sea seemed larger than before the storm. Flashes of green light tore intermittently through it and hundreds of dark shapes, tiny with distance, were now teeming around its periphery.

When Iod was about to crest over the cliffs behind them, Argolan stopped.

“We must look for shelter,” she said. “We are once again exposed.”

Illiom walked right past the Shieldarm. She pointed towards a distinctive shadow in the cliff face, not three hundred spans from where they stood.

“No need,” she said. “There it is.”

She did not wait for them to catch up but pushed on, oblivious to Argolan and Tarmel’s urgings to be cautious.

Illiom reached the opening first; the others came close behind her, weapons in hand.

They stepped into a surprisingly large cavern with a small fire spluttering at the far end. A lone person sat before it, back towards them.

The smell of cooked fish made Illiom’s mouth water.

It was a woman, Illiom saw as they drew near. She was scantily dressed for the season. A necklace fashioned from shells adorned her. Her hair hung in uneven and tangled clumps and seemed like a nest for all manner of things: shells, bones, and even strands of seaweed.

Illiom thought she saw something burrow out of sight as they came closer.

The woman turned slowly to regard them.

“You have arrived,” she said in a soft voice.

Her dark eyes shone peacefully in the fire’s light and a moment later she turned her attention back to it, adding a few lengths of driftwood to the flames.

“Have you eaten?” She asked, and then continued before anyone could reply, “I knew you were here when the sea became still. It has never done that before.”

Her voice was calm and unruffled.

The woman set aside the fillet she had been cleaning and picked up another from a nearby basket.

“Sit down and join me,” she invited, gesturing towards a seaweed rack where several clean fillets rested, waiting to be cooked. “Help yourselves, I can hear the rumble of your stomachs from here.”

“What is she saying?” Argolan asked.

Malco translated and soon they were all taking turns around the fire. In no time the aroma of cooked fish filled the entire cavern.

The woman gazed appraisingly at each of the Chosen in turn.

“You were expecting us?” Azulya asked.

The woman looked at the Kroeni for a long moment, and then reached out and touched her cheek.

“Yes,” she answered, dropping her hand and turning back to her work.

“Who are you?” asked Elan.

“I am the Keeper. One of no consequence and just one in a long line, but it looks like I will be the last.”

“Keeper?” Scald asked. “Of what?”

“Of the boat, what else?” she said, as though the answer was self-evident.

She held a fish by its tail as she skilfully gutted it and then ran the blade deftly down its scales.

“There have been countless of us,” she continued, as her gaze became distant. “I have lived on the shores of the Cursed Sea for most of my life, waiting for you to arrive.”

“Why?” Malco asked. “What made you come here?”

“Fate. The Keeper is always alone until a new one is guided to come and take their place. Most Keepers choose to die here, but some leave. They probably leave to die as well, for what kind of life can one hope to find in these parts?”

She shook her head, clearly displaying her feelings on the subject.

Illiom glanced at her companions. The woman’s eyes darted this way and that, and she worked her mouth in odd ways, even when she was not speaking. Illiom wondered if she had lost her wits.

“So, I am not to die here after all,” she continued. “For with your coming, I am released.” Her expression brightened. “I will see the prophecy of the Seven Comets come to pass.”

She suddenly frowned and her expression grew puzzled.

“Though I wonder … what will I do after I leave … no longer a Keeper … nothing left to keep.”

She shrugged, then rubbed sand through her fingers before leaning forward to pick up a brand from the fire.

She rose nimbly to her feet.

“Come with me. The boat is near.”

They followed her deeper into the darkness of the grotto.

As they walked, they passed a bed of dry seaweed and a crude table of driftwood. All kinds of treasures washed up from the sea lay strewn in the sand. Among them Illiom noticed a candlestick and a hand mirror, both tarnished and corroded, yet still recognisable. There were also some lengths of wood that, beneath the encrustations of salt, bore the marks of elaborate and artful engravings.

Scores of dried fish hung from frames of driftwood erected next to a crude hearth. On the other side was a great pile of empty shells and an imposing stockpile of firewood.

The prow of a boat suddenly came into view, hovering like a ghostly apparition in the tremulous light of the Keeper’s torch.

As they drew near the vessel gradually revealed its shape: a sleek and graceful longboat with a defiant prow beam and a single central mast supporting a furled sail. Illiom peered inside and saw three seats on each side and one at the tiller, which accounted for their exact number.

The Keeper turned to look at them, satisfied by the awe she saw on their faces.

“Only thirteen days till the Illignment,” Azulya noted. “I do not think that we should delay another moment.”

Illiom tended to agree, but she hungered to spend just one more day with Tarmel before they were forced to separate.

“You do not know how long it will take to reach the island nor what will follow when you get there,” Argolan argued. “I would rest, eat, sleep and then set out, fully restored, at first light.”

“And what if,” countered Azulya, “the world falls to darkness because we tarried this one day?”

“Kassargan?” Scald turned to the descrier who was passing her hand over the prow of the boat. “What do you say? Can you scry an answer for Azulya?”

Her silence informed them all that she was doing precisely that. In time she replied.

“Though the events surrounding the Illignment are closed to me, I sense no harm resulting from one day of delay.”

Malco sighed with relief.

“Thanks be to the Gods! Someone wake me when it is time to go.”

It was a poignant and precious time for Illiom and Tarmel and they embraced every moment they had reverently. They rested together in their love, deepening the bond they already had.

They finally slept, breaths mingling, fingers entwined, hearts beating as one, until the pallid glow of dawn crept through the entrance and announced that the time for the crossing had arrived.

The Chosen, Argolan, the Riders, Kassargan, the two Shakim tribals, and even the nameless Keeper, all came together and broke fast on fish and fresh water. This meal had all the markings of a ritual and they honoured it by maintaining complete silence.

When they were sated, the Keeper spoke.

“You must understand that the Onceland Sea is cursed,” she warned. “Within its depths lie all the slain of Sterecklahomn and the other great cities devastated by ancient evil.”

Her eyes connected with them individually as she spoke.

“They resent the living and they may try to lure you into their midst. Their song is compelling, but you must resist, for they have nothing to offer you but an early death.”

Having delivered this warning, she rose to her feet.

“Time to launch her and see if she still floats. Good thing that you have brought along so many companions. It will make light of the work.”

It turned out to be a relatively easy matter to push the boat over the slipway of logs that lined the sand as far as the cleft of the entrance. The tide was in again and the water lapped right up to the last, half-buried log. They heaved, lifted and pushed until, inch by inch, the vessel emerged from hiding and slid into the still mirror of the Onceland Sea.

The time for parting was upon them.

The Chosen took their leave from those who would remain behind. When Illiom approached Kassargan, the descrier reached for her wordlessly and held her.

Her lips were poised so close to Illiom’s ear that she could hear her breathing. For a moment she was sure that the descrier had intended to say something, but then the moment passed and the two parted. Holding each other by the forearms, Kassargan finally spoke.

“You already know all you need to know,” she said softly, and smiled. “Be true, Chosen.”

The descrier turned away and Argolan took her place.

It was Illiom’s turn to speak.

“Look after Tarmel,” she said quietly. “He will need you if I do not return.”

When she pulled back, Argolan’s face was a mask of containment. She nodded imperceptibly and that was all the reassurance Illiom needed.

The last parting was the hardest for her.

Tarmel and Illiom gazed into each other’s eyes, imprinting what they saw deeply into their memory, to sustain them through the days ahead.

They kissed once – a long, sweet moment in eternity – and Tarmel helped Illiom over the gunwale.

The Keeper and those who were to remain behind pushed the boat out to sea. They kept at it until their feet found no more purchase beneath the glassy surface and they were finally forced to let go.

The boat glided slowly away from the shore, her prow making for the noxious cloud that concealed their destination.

She had thought that she might be able to resist the pull, but Illiom found that she could not leave without turning back to look upon her lover’s face once more.

Tarmel was standing, waist deep in the water, watching her go.

She placed her hand upon her heart, even as the grip of grief tightened around her throat.

Her Rider mirrored her gesture.

Tears fell silently down her face as Illiom turned away to face her destiny.

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